Forget
by Nova-chan
Summary: Sherlock attempts suicide. John finds him in time and is able to get him to the hospital. When John runs home to grab some things he happens to find Sherlock's suicide note and its addressed to John personally. What does the note say?
1. Forget

/

Warning: suicide attempt.

~*~

It's after dark when he gets home. The days are shorter now, and colder. He shrugs out of his too-thin jacket and hangs it up. John wanders into the kitchen and opens the fridge, to see if he'll need to order out or not. Fortunately there are no dismembered parts inside to turn his stomach away from eating. Unfortunately, there's no food either. He should have expected as much, though. It was Sherlock's turn to buy groceries after all.

He starts to dial the number from the Thai express restaurant three blocks away, but stops to ask Sherlock if he wants anything. John doesn't see him in the sitting room, so he checks Sherlock's bedroom. Not there either. He almost passes by the bathroom, but the light's on, so he inches the cracked door open to peek inside.

There's a leg sticking out of the bathtub. One that's attached to a full human body. Sherlock's leg. John's adrenaline begins to surge through him, but he tempers it, reminding himself that Sherlock is probably just stoned or exhausted.

"Sherlock?" he says, cautiously, standing in the doorway. He can't see more than Sherlock's leg and the top of his tousled head from the distance. John's hand shakes. Something in the air doesn't feel right. He moves two steps into the small bathroom and suddenly he's sprinting the last four feet, dropping to his knees beside the tub. He grabs for Sherlock's hand, and puts it back across the man's lap just as fast. His fingers are now dripping with blood and he presses them to Sherlock's neck, begging for a pulse.

Everything is covered in bright red liquid now. The sides of the tub, Sherlock's blue shirt, Sherlock's neck and John's hands, and now the buttons on John's phone as he desperately calls for an ambulance.

Sherlock is twitching as John forcefully applies hand towels to his torn wrists. He is issuing an assortment of pleads, curses, reprimands, and then more pleading. Mostly pleading and crying now.

Sherlock's head lolls against the linoleum siding of the bathroom wall and he's dry heaving. Still unconscious, liquid dripping from his eyes and mouth as his body tries to expel the poison it's had to endure. He's sweating and moaning, but still nowhere near coherency. John slides behind him in the tub and just holds him, his and Sherlock's arms crossed over Sherlock's torso as John holds the tea towels firmly to the abused wrists.

John is clutching his friend's body to him desperately, as if holding on tightly enough can prevent him from leaving the earthly shell. John believes it's true, at least for the moment.

A siren is coming closer, but John can't hear it over the screaming in his head. He clings to Sherlock even after the paramedics have arrived and they have to pry the insensible body away from the hysterical army doctor.

Sherlock is lying on a hospital gurney in the middle of the _bloody hallway_ because the hospital is past its capacity. _Full moon,_ John thinks, but he can't be certain. Sherlock has had a gastric suction to get rid of the drug he's overdosed on-a narcotic anti-anxiety drug, no less-and has had his wrists stitched up, and still isn't ill enough to warrant one of the precious few hospital beds in the place.

John stands on the opposite side of the hallway, watching his friend and his IV drip. A girl with a broken leg lays on a gurney end-to-end with Sherlock's. She is young, afraid, alone. John wonders where her family could be. There's a man in scrubs sitting in a rolling chair in the corner between this hallway and the next. He's a mental health tech assigned to Sherlock's suicide watch.

Sherlock's eyes flutter and he looks up at the bright lights above him in a daze. John doesn't approach him or speak to him. He's beginning to feel a little betrayed and frustrated. Sherlock looks at the tech in the corner. Then he turns his head and looks straight at John. Sherlock's eyes are red and his lips are chapped. He looks away and down at his bandaged wrists. Back up at John. He opens his mouth to say something, but a woman in a white coat clicks through the hallway, breaking the eerie silence before he can.

"Ok, Mr. Holmes, we're moving you to crisis stabilization," she says. "I'm Dr. Hedding, your psychiatrist. I'll come by to talk to you in the morning, but for tonight I just want you to rest."

"No," Sherlock says, and his voice is fractured. "I'm going home." He moves as if he's going to sit up.

"You tried to kill yourself today," she says, not sternly. "I can't allow you to go off unsupervised."

"I want to leave AMA," Sherlock says, insistently. "My doctor," he gestures vaguely toward John, "will keep watch."

Dr. Hedding glances at John, but her expression is firm. "You can't leave AMA until you've been evaluated, Mr. Holmes. I am legally obligated to keep you for the night. If you don't comply, I can have one of our hospital officers handcuff you and escort you to lockdown."

Sherlock is too weak, too tired to argue and he flops back against the raised headrest of the gurney.

"Thank you," says Dr. Hedding. "You can ask your friend to bring you some personal items from home." She turns to John. "Nothing sharp, no weapons, no dental floss, shampoo, or anything of that sort. If you're unsure about what's okay, they're going to check everything before they let you through with it anyway."

John nods and tries to catch Sherlock's elusive eye.

"A nurse will take you to your new room in a few minutes," says the psychiatrist. "You'll have to say goodbye to him here," she says to John before leaving.

John finally comes near the gurney and places a hand on the metal safety rail. "So…clothes, books, music?" John asks. He doesn't ask about _it_. He doesn't know if he can grasp _it_ right now.

Sherlock doesn't look at him. "Clothes, books," he agrees. "No music, they won't let me have the headphones. Could strangle myself with the cords." There's no hint of humor or sarcasm in him.

John nods mutely. He stays with Sherlock until the nurse comes to wheel him to the secured floor. They don't say anything more to one another.

John makes it back to the flat and it's a miracle he hasn't collapsed. He starts toward Sherlock's bedroom, trying to make everything mechanical, solid, detached. He should call Mycroft. Or maybe just text him. Impersonal, no reason to make his voice crack as he tries to explain to Sherlock's brother about his bleeding wrists and his choking dry heaves. He stops at the bathroom door. He should really clean up in there before Mrs. Hudson sees it.

He can't right now.

John goes back to the task he'd started at the beginning of the evening. He needs to find something to eat, so his limbs will stop shaking, and his stress headache will abate.

He goes into the kitchen and bypasses the fridge. Goes for the cabinets where maybe, just maybe, there's a crisp box of pasta or rice.

There's a note taped to the foremost cabinet. It's been torn haphazardly out of a notebook, and the scrawl on it is unfamiliar. John takes it in his trembling fingers and begins to read.

_John…_ God, why leave it for him?

_I'm sorry. I didn't do this to hurt you, although I know it will._ Damn right it did.

_I love you, you're my dearest friend, and I couldn't have held out this long without you being here._ Sherlock, how long have you been hurting like this?

_But now I can't stay anymore. I'm in pain. I'm worthless. I'm miserable._ You may be in pain and miserable, but you aren't worthless, and I'm going to tell you that myself when I see you.

_I just want this to be over. I want it all to be over. I don't want an afterlife. I just want to be gone._ How did I miss something this big? I know I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but I should have been able to see him in this much pain…

_My only regret about doing this is that you will be hurt, and Mrs. Hudson will be frightened, and Mycroft will be disappointed. Even so, I'm going._ God, Sherlock, why didn't you talk to me? Didn't you trust me? Didn't you think I'd want to help you?

_I'm so tired, and everyday I wake up, wishing that I were strong enough to die. Today I think I am._

I'm sorry.

John folds the paper. He's torn between ripping it up and keeping it in his pocket to remind himself how badly Sherlock has hurt. He decides to rip it. He'll never be able to forget.


	2. Same Mistake

_I'm not calling for a second chance,  
I'm screaming at the top of my voice.  
Give me reason, but don't give me choice,  
Because I'll just make the same mistake again._  
-James Blunt, "Same Mistake"

~*~

The ward is far from quiet. Several patients are up and about, roaming the small day area. Some relatives and friends are visiting, adding to the chaos. This particular section of the hospital only allows two visiting hours per day, and John plans to make the best he can of them. Three items out of the six he brought with him are allowed in. One of Sherlock's books on social anthropology, which John had surmised would be an interesting read, a duffel bag with Sherlock's pyjamas, and one of his outfits, and a ratty blanket. John had made a point to bring Sherlock something that would make him "feel better," whatever the hell that meant. So he had brought his own sleeping roll blanket that had been with him since the army.

John feels his chest tighten as he remembers the conversation on his phone earlier. Sherlock's hospital room had a free phone service and he had called John, sounding distinctly not-himself.

_"John, they aren't going to let me out unless you sign some paper saying you'll stay on suicide watch once we're at home," Sherlock had said. "I just need you to sign it and get me out of here."_

John had been contemplative. He'd heard the pleading in his friend's voice, but wasn't going to commit to anything until he'd seen him. "Does the psychiatrist think it's a good idea for you to leave so soon?" he'd asked.

"She can bugger off for all I care!" Sherlock had yelled. John had wondered whether he was sharing a room or not. If he was, his roommate had definitely drawn the short straw on room assignments. "I feel like I'm in prison, John! I want you to get me out!"

John had tried to remain calm. Sherlock was afraid, and that was the truth. He tried to talk to him in what he hoped was a friendly, soothing voice. "Which of your pyjamas do you want me to bring?" he had asked.

"No!" Sherlock had wailed. Actually wailed. "I don't want anything! I just want to go home!"

John had listened silently while Sherlock yelled obscenities and threats at him. Finally he had calmed and John had promised to visit him as soon as the hospital allowed it.

John walks into the room that Sherlock has to himself. He's in the bed, staring at the wall, dismally. John empathizes with his boredom. He walks over to the bed and silently lays his tattered blue blanket over the thin body. Sherlock starts but soon corrects himself, grasping the edge of the blanket between his fingers.

"Mycroft said no," is all that Sherlock says. John guesses that Sherlock had asked his brother to sign him out as well, to no avail.

"If the doctor thinks you need to be in here, then she probably thinks there'll be some benefit," John says. He looks at the bare room, wishing that he'd brought some flowers, or some kind of token of getting well soon.

Sherlock catches his eye. "You don't get flowers when you try to kill yourself," he says coarsely. "People don't really know what to do, but flowers could encourage you to try again or some rubbish. Ergo, no flowers."

John swallows. "It isn't that we don't want you to get better, Sherlock, because of course we do." He pauses, trying to collect his words into a coherent sentence. "But for me, at least, I can't help feeling hurt by what you did. And a little guilty. It's not a good combination."

Sherlock finally rolls over to face him. His eyes are dark and hollow. John catches a glimpse of the bandage on his left wrist. "I thought I had your schedule all worked out so that it would be too late when…I feel terrible, John. I shouldn't have done it…or I should at least have done it _well_…"

John slaps him right across the face. Sherlock is stunned, but John doesn't apologize. "Did you even think of what I would have to go through? Do you even care what I'm going through now?" John stands up and paces for a moment. When Sherlock doesn't answer, he sits back down beside him on the edge of the bed. "When I found you, do you know what was going through my head? I couldn't stop thinking, 'Please don't leave. Please just live a few more minutes.' I would have traded _anything_, any person, including myself for your life right then." John visibly sags and then his eyes fill with tears and he's gripping Sherlock to his chest and weeping into the thick hair. "I'm just so glad that you're ok…you…you have no idea how much this affects me…" Anything more he wants to say is drowned out by his gasping sobs.

Sherlock shivers, but not from cold, and he grabs fistfulls of the back of John's jumper. He takes in John's airy, familiar scent and wishes, however illogical it is, that he could undo the last stretch of time that he's irrevocably destroyed.

Finally John is able to pull back and look at Sherlock in the eye. "I want you to get better," he says. "I will do anything at all to insure that happens."

Sherlock nods. He knows that John means he'll have to endure an extended stay in the hospital under the careful watch of the psychiatrists and nurses. He almost doesn't care, because John has leaned down to kiss him. He carefully returns the kiss, fragile thing that it is, and indulges in the moment.

A tentative knock comes at the door and John backs away from Sherlock a bit. Lestrade walks in, and Sherlock almost collapses into tears, as the Detective Inspector is smiling weakly, encouragingly, and holding a vase of flowers.

~*~

Dear ones, if you are ever in a situation where you feel that suicide is the only way out, please call someone. This link gives all international crisis lines. wwwDOTbefriendersDOTorg/

Peace and all my love.


End file.
